


Walking Through Perdition

by TheWyldeWynd



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: Child Abuse, Developing Friendships, F/M, Feels, Fluff and Angst, Gramsy is a BAMF, I Believe in Grant Ward, Multi, Other Additional Tags and the Like to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rating May Change, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Slightly to Very AU, Teenagers can also be awesome, Teenagers can be jerks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-04-28 05:56:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5080315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWyldeWynd/pseuds/TheWyldeWynd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He freezes, the background chatter of the police and hospital fading as he stares at the kid in front of him.  Black hair, pale skin, tall and fit without being built, covered in cuts and bruises, burns and scratches, eyes wide and numb from the unfamiliar horrors and brushes with death.  He stares and stares and stares at the strange kid with his face and wonders about all the might-haves and what-ifs and could-have-beens of his life.</p>
<p>Just one choice made differently, one road not taken, one word spoken, and who might he have been instead?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

On September 19th, 1995, Amber Middleton woke up on the fourth day of her “study-cation,” got herself a glass of water and, after a brief deliberation, went back to bed. The next day she finished the previous afternoon’s work of developing and sorting her latest set of photos, and headed into town to grab a late lunch. Sitting in the diner she heard a couple locals talking at the counter, whispering about how “that troubled boy” had finally acted out enough for his poor parents to do something suitably drastic and get him away from “his poor, sweet little brother” by sending him off to military school. Bent over a blue plate not-so-special and a text book, Amber shook her head and silently congratulated herself for changing her major all those years ago. Childhood psychology might have paid a lot better than nature photography, but at least she wouldn’t have to deal with things like this. Still, she found herself hoping that, whatever “that troubled boy’s” troubles _were_ , the new school would help him out. And, if nothing else, at least it would keep his little brother safe from whatever was going on in his head. With the final thought that, whatever madness had come before, the future was probably going to be a lot better for the whole family, whoever they were, Amber dove back into her studies and never gave the overheard conversation another thought.

Amber never knew what happened to “that troubled boy.” She never knew about the military school, the house fire, the man who smiled too wide and pulled strings like a puppet master, the woods and the dog, the new life and the plane, the steady descent into pain and madness, the never-ending spiral of lies and betrayal and blame and hate, all leading further and further into darkness.

But what if that didn’t happen?

On September 19th, 1995, Amber Middleton woke up on the fourth day of her “study-cation,” got herself a glass of water and, after a brief deliberation, got dressed, grabbed her camera, and headed out into the woods to see if she could get some really interesting shots. Nearly an hour into her hike she stumbled across a small, overgrown path, and headed down it until she came upon an older building, an old well, and…  
Amber stared in horror, rooted in place as she watched a young boy struggling to pull another, much smaller boy out of the well. She watched them collapse on the ground, shivering and hugging each other and crying. She watched as another boy, older, bigger than the two on the ground, suddenly rounded the corner and looked at them with more hate than she ever thought a child could possess. She watched as he started towards them, only to stop when a woman appeared and…

Amber wanted to close her eyes. She wanted her legs to move, to run towards the kids, or run away for help. She wanted to scream and scream and _scream_ until the nightmare in front of her stopped and the world went back to normal. But all she could do was stand and stare in horror as the woman turned into something monstrous, inhuman, _terrifying_ as she ran over and grabbed the first boy, screaming and cursing at him, hitting and clawing at him, throwing him to the ground, grabbing his little throat, choking the life out of him. She stood and stared as a man in a suit suddenly appeared, flanked by two others, and yanked the woman off the boy only to viciously backhand him back to the ground. She stood and stared as the woman kept shrieking like a feral animal, as the man in the suit yelled at everyone and shook the little boy by his hair, as one of the other men restrained the woman while his partner mechanically gathered up the smallest boy and headed towards another building in the distance. She stood and stared until the man gave the little boy another brutal slap and started dragging him away by his dark hair, and then she found herself running back down the little path, running faster and faster and faster until she made it to the town, her feet bringing her to the old fashioned phone booth inside the diner.

Her hands were trembling violently as she fed coins into the slot, trying not to burst into hysterics or start vomiting as she stammered out what she had seen to the answering deputy. Whatever instinct had sent her to the phone rather than the station itself led her to hang up when he asked her name, then to remember all of the horrible jokes Tony made about backwater towns and pick the phone up again, this time dialing the local newspaper. Again she hung up when they asked her name, and for a moment she stood, dazed and confused and horrified, in the tiny cubical. Then, hands shaking so badly she dropped more coins then she didn’t, she called Marisol, holding her breath through the dial tone and finally bursting into tears when her roommate answered. By the time she managed to gasp out most of the story Mari was already yelling on the other end of the phone, telling her to _stay put_ in the diner, that she would get her brother to drive her up and they would get Amber and bring her back to campus. They stayed on the phone, Amber’s sobs dying to hoarse gasps and Mari murmuring soothing encouragements, until the meter ran down and they had to hang up. Wiping her tears away as best she could, Amber finally stepped out of the booth, stammering some story about her cousin getting in a car accident when the concerned waitress came over, then let herself be led to a booth and a mug of cheap cocoa be placed in her hands by the waitress – “You just call me Barb, sweetheart, and if you need anything while you wait for your friends you let me know, alright?”

Several minutes later the bell on the door chimed, nearly causing her to jolt out of her skin, and a nondescript older man in a fisherman’s jacket and cokebottle glasses came in. She held her breath as he walked over to her, then let it out as quietly as possible as he passed her, made a joke with the waitress about his boss tying up the phone lines, and stepped into the phone booth. He reemerged a while later, heading over to the counter and making small talk while Barb poured him a coffee and wrapped up a sandwich. Amber had nearly fazed back out of reality when the man turned, started walking, then abruptly stopped by her booth. Trying to look as calm as possible, she looked up and him and tried to smile, only the freeze when she caught sight of the press badge hanging from one pocket. The man stared at her for a long moment then, in a move that sent her stomach up into her throat, took a few steps closer and stooped down to swipe a roll of film off the floor, depositing it on the table with a “I think this is yours, miss.” She managed a smile and stammered thanks, insides twisting into knots when he looked her straight in the eyes, expression knowing, and smiled and departed, wishing her “a good day now.”

She sat in the booth for hours, nursing mug after mug of cheap cocoa, choking down a bowl of soup and hunk of bread, and praising the good Lord for Barb’s craggy reassurances and mastery at directing everyone else’s attention away from her, when _finally_ the door chimed again and Mari appeared, sprinting over to give her a hug and pull her towards the door.

They swept outside, Barb waving away her money with a kind smile, and nearly dove into Miguel’s scrap-heap of a car. They crept down the road, Tony’s sudden appearance outside the inn with her things shutting her up before she could ask _why_ they weren’t burning rubber out of there and, incidentally, explaining why there was a Louisville Slugger tucked next to the front seat.

The boys were shoving the last of her bags into the truck when Amber noticed a well kept old station wagon pull up in front of the Sherriff’s, an older woman getting out and purposefully striding inside just as Miguel climbed back inside and _finally_ started them out of town.

Snuggling into her roommate’s hug, Amber spent the entire drive back to campus sobbing quietly, mind fixed on the little boy by the well, hoping that _somehow_ _someone_ would help him, would get him away from those… people and finally, _finally_ keep him safe. 

#########################

_One, two, three, four, **drip** , five, six, seven, eight, **drip** , nine, ten, eleven, twelve, **dripdrip** , thirteen, fourteen, **bzzt** , fifteen, sixteen, **drip** …_

He doesn’t move, doesn’t look up from the dingy linoleum under his shoes, tries not to breathe too heavily or shiver in the cold. They said _**‘stay’**_ and he’s going to, because while there’s no way he can make things better he’s sure as hell not going to make things _worse_. Not if he can help it. 

Besides, being perfectly still hurts enough as it is.

So he sits, and he waits, and he listens to the dripping sink and flickering fluorescents and raised voices down the hall, and he tries fruitlessly not to think about what he’s done and what’s to come.

_seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, **drip** , twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, **drip** , twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, **dripdrip bzzt** …_

He can still hear Tommy sobbing, the sound echoing in his head like someone’s looped a recording, and he wants to shake his head but _can’t_ because the world is foggy and spinning already and if he does he might throw up. 

Besides, he has to **stay**.

_one, two, three, four, **drip** , five, six, seven, eight, **dripdrip** , nine, ten, eleven, twelve, **drip** , thirteen, fourteen, **bzzt** , fifteen, sixteen, **drip** …_

His clothes are still wet and clinging to him from where he held Tommy, and between the autumn air and the broken heater in the station things are getting pretty cold, which is making it harder to be still. Every few minutes or so – the time between is getting shorter and shorter – the little trembles suddenly grow, turning into full body shudders that make it feel like he’s on fire while his vision goes white. When the shudders come he bites harder inside his cheek, forces back any sounds and the bile in his throat, blinks the white away, tries to breathe as best he can, and waits for it to pass, because if he can’t be good, the least he can do is obey. 

He has to **stay**.

_seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, **drip** , twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, **dripdrip** , twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, **drip bzzt** …_

One of the voices – _Her_ voice – rises in an abrupt shriek, and it takes everything he has to remain still.

Everything’s just so, so, _so_ much worse than ever before. Not just what happened – what he _did_ – but what’s happening. 

He’s caught snatches of the conversation behind those doors, caught the gist that they’re planning drastic measures, planning to send him away to “get him sorted out properly.” The thought – that they might actually send him away this time, leave Tommy without anyone to distract Christian, to take the brunt of his hate and soften the blows that slip through – is almost too horrible to take.

He _can’t_ leave Tommy alone. He just _can’t_.

But now he’s not sure if he’ll have any other option.

Hazily, he wonders just what they’re even _doing_ there, shorting things in the sheriff’s office rather than behind their own doors as usual. The local sheriff is what Dad calls “a Smart Man,” and knows what is and isn’t his business. Someone must have seen something, must have raised some kind of fuss. Probably wasn’t local. The locals all know to stay out of Family Business. Whoever spoke up will learn soon enough. He just wishes – selfishly, because when isn’t he selfish? – that they had learned _before_ today, because now things are… complicated.

_one, two, three, four, **drip** , five, six, seven, eight, **dripdrip** , nine, ten, eleven, twelve, **drip** , thirteen, fourteen, **bzzt** , fifteen, **tap, tap click, tap, tap click, tap, tap click, tap** …_

He freezes at the new sound, heart clenching in blind terror before he realizes that the sound of the heels isn’t sharp enough, that it isn’t _Her_ coming towards him. Even so he keeps still, makes himself stay, as the sound comes nearer and nearer, finally coming to a halt right in front of him. He tries to keep breathing, to stay still, and waits for the woman – Dad’s newest “assistant” or the sheriff’s receptionist? – to speak. 

“Michael?”

His breath catches in his throat, mind going blank, and everything seems to stop. 

Only one person ever calls him that, calls him by the second middle name given as an afterthought, a grudging acknowledgement to the grandfather who died before he was born. Only one person says his name without any trace of disgust or fear, like he _isn’t_ a barely restrained rabid dog or a piece of garbage on the street. 

Only one person.

The one person he doesn’t want to be there, to see him now, to know what he’s done.

To know what he _is_.

He’s biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood when the hand comes to rest on his head, softer than any touch he’s felt since… well, since the last time he saw her, probably. He can’t help trembling, wanting to pull away and leap into her arms all at once, knowing that both desires are _wrong_ and he should be ashamed for even having them.

“Michael, will you look at me?”

No. No. No. No, no, no, no, nonononononononono, _no_ , _**please**_ no. His eyes are squeezed together so tightly that stars explode behind them, and it takes everything he has to not burst into tears at the _kindness_ in her voice.

He wants to tell her not to waste that kindness, that he doesn’t deserve it, but all he can do is keep his eyes shut and tremble.

There’s a shift – she’s _kneeling_ in front of him now – and her hand cups his cheek gently. “Sweetheart, please look at me. I know that…” she sighs, the sound oddly tense, “I know there was an accident. But it’s going to be alright now, you don’t need to -”

“It was my fault.” The words fall out before he can stop them, the _need_ to save her from himself overwhelming both the selfish want to keep that gentleness in her voice and the hard learned lessons about rudeness. “I did it. It was all my fault. I… I nearly killed him.”

His voice shakes, catches, weak as he _just_ manages to hold back tears, and a fresh stab of shame tears through him – shame at his actions, at the innate sickness inside that let him commit such horrors, and the pathetic weakness that’s even now about to drive him into childish sobs – as he waits for her to react, to pull back in the disgust and horror that he deserves because - 

_“Michael.”_

Once, when he was younger, he heard his parents talking, heard them refer to his grandmother as ‘that witch.’ Too young to fully understand he had taken those words literally, become _convinced_ that she was something _more_ than other humans, that she had powers and abilities that others didn’t. As he grew and learned that fantasy fell away, the image of his grandmother as some all powerful good witch gradually fading into reality.

But now, sitting in the sheriff’s office, tired and cold and hurting and _scared_ , he hears her say his name and it’s like he’s being caught up, swept away by something strange and otherworldly and _powerful_ , and suddenly he’s looking up into her eyes.

At first her eyes are cold and hard, and hysterically he feels like he’s standing back over The Well, teetering on the edge. Then, just when he thinks he’s going to fall in, they… not soften, really. There’s no gentleness or pity or sympathy in them, like he sees sometimes in adults who don’t know about him or haven’t been warned yet. Instead there’s open reservation, judgment suspended until she’s heard what he has to say and assessed his story. 

“I don’t need to hear other peoples’ words repeated. I want _you_ to tell me what happened.”

Later, he’ll look back and think that’s what did it. Because he’s seen softness and sympathy and kindness vanish, turn to suspicion and horror after a few words from someone who “knows.” No one’s ever looked at him like that before. Looked at him after hearing someone else talk, and then be willing to listen to him. 

So, against every instinct say that it’s pointless, that he needs to shut his mouth and _obey_ , that no matter what anyone else said or did he is still guilty, still at fault, still needs to be punished because he did and is _wrong_ … he starts talking.

He tells her about The Well. About Christian cornering him behind the shed, telling him to _obey_ or else he would _really_ hurt Tommy. About pulling Tommy to The Well, throwing him in, listening to him scream and sob and beg, and Christian hissing threats into his ear. About tasting blood in his mouth, feeling it under his nails as he waited and waited and waited and hoped for mercy for them both. About grabbing the rope, not caring if Christian threw him in for disobeying, not caring if he threw them both in because at least then he’d be able to help Tommy stay above the surface. About pulling Tommy close, covering him with his jacket, trying to warm him up. He tells her about Christian rounding the corner, seeing them. About the look on his brother’s face and the brief moment when he thought that Christian was actually about to kill him. About how he never got the chance because that’s when Mother arrived. About how she ran over, grabbed him, and he realized she _was_ going to kill him. About how she kicked him, put her hands around his throat, forced his head against the ground over and over until a blurry shape appeared from behind and pulled her away. Everything becomes hazy and fragmented after that, but it doesn’t stop him talking. He tells her about The Cake, about The Screwdriver, about Mother and her room in the basement where she _tests_ things. About how Mother will hurt them while Dad calmly sits nearby with a scotch, only really looking at them when _he_ feels the need to discipline them. About how sometimes Christian comes into the room while he’s showering, sometimes getting in to ‘help’ him wash his hair, sometimes playing with the temperature of the water, sometimes just sitting there and watching. About what is feels like to have a cigarette pressed into your skin, fingernails driven through your arm, a stiletto through your foot, or needles pressed into the inside of your eyelid. About being locked in the closet over the weekend, then being beaten for soiling things. About sleeping in a naked ball on the concrete floor of the basement and being grateful that at least you aren’t outside in the snow. About hugging himself in the dark, watching Claire slip out the window and across the lawn and disappearing into the night, knowing _why_ she’s leaving him behind but feeling betrayed all the same. About putting himself between Tommy and Christian whenever their older brother gets upset, pulling the attention to himself as much as he can and knowing it’s never going to be enough. About every time Christian’s made him hurt Tommy. About seeing his little brother look up in terror, hearing him begging for mercy, feeling Christian over his shoulder, promising what will happen to them both if he doesn’t obey. About the change in Tommy’s eyes, as – even knowing that he’s just Christian’s proxy – he starts to wonder whether or not his older brother is growing to _enjoy_ hurting him. About the ever growing fear that he really _is_ the monster they say and some day he just _might_.

He tells her and tells her and tells her things until he isn’t even sure what he’s saying, lips moving and words coming out in a flood. He talks and talks and talks and just when he’s sure that the act of _finally_ describing the hell that is his life is going to break him apart… she grabs him, pulls him in, wraps her arms around him and _holds_.

He’s surrounded by her, but – unlike when it’s Christian or Mother or one of the guards grabbing him, trapping him – there’s no pain or sickness. Instead his senses are full of the warm, worn, scratchy wool from her sweater, the smell of paper and ink and jasmine clinging to her skin, the sound of her steady breathing and steadier heartbeat.

He feels… strange. Warm inside, in a way that has nothing to do with temperature. Suddenly calm, quiet and closed in, but in a good way, like how he feels sitting on the roof on the rare occasions when Mother and Dad and Christian are gone. He thinks it’s what safe feels like.

He’s not sure how long they sit there, the world shrunk to include nothing but the two of them.

It can’t last, though, and all too soon he hears a new clamor of raised voices, the door being flung open, and the familiar rain of sharp heels against the ground.

“What the _hell_ are _you_ doing here?!”

All the good he’s feeling vanishes, the shivering coming back in force, from fear now instead of pain or cold. He tenses, starts to pull away, then stops when a hand comes to rest on his back. Her head moves, forehead brushing his temple as she murmurs “It’s going to be alright, Michael” into his ear. Then she rises, shifting to put herself in front of him. To put herself between them.

“Good afternoon, Charlotte.” The tone, the words, the voice are all genial. Underneath them is nothing but cold steel. “How have you been?”

He doesn’t look away from the wall in front of him, _can’t_ look away, but he _knows_ that Mother’s eyes are narrowing, lips curling into a snarl, fingers flexing like claws. Then she speaks, and the room grows colder with every disdainful syllable. “I asked you a question, you senile hag, so why don’t you walk away from that little psychopath and _answer it_.”

He knows what happens next. She’s going to walk away from him, answer Mother’s questions, then leave when dismissed. Because Mother is stronger, scarier, _more_ than anyone else. Because everyone learns quickly to _obey_.

Except… except she just… doesn’t. All she does is sigh, sounding weary and exasperated and a little disgusted all at once. “That you call him a psychopath without any trace of irony is almost as depressing as the act of you calling him that at all.” She sniffs, sounding bored, “And I see the steady decline of your manners has increased in rate since last we spoke. I suppose that’s impressive, in a way.” There’s a rustle of cloth, and suddenly her shawl is settling around his shoulders. “A testament to the corrupting influence of power without oversight. Or,” the undertone of disdain deepens, “maybe it’s just indicative of how too much free time and proximity to a host of spineless worms can take even the blackest of souls and turn out something so… _petty._ ” A steady hand adjusts the shawl, tucking it closer before reaching up to gently stroke his hair. “Oh, and speaking of spineless worms, where is that worthless husband of yours? Making himself useful by bribing the police into parroting your lies, or just indulging his carnal addictions as usual?” She hums, almost amused, “That pretty little receptionist out front didn’t look trashy enough to actually be interested, but I suppose she is young enough to be swayed… or bullied, as the case may be.”

Something flies past them, just inches from his grandmother’s head, and shatters against the far wall. “Do you ever _shut up_ you _**cow?!**_ ”

His stomach and lungs seize, every instinct screaming to _run_ , hide, curl into a ball, do _anything_ to get away from his mother, or at least fall beneath her notice.

Everyone reacts when Mother is this angry, falls into line or tries to hide or takes their leave. 

Everyone except for his grandmother, it seems, who barely seems to acknowledge that there’s anyone else in the room, instead focusing on him, running her hand over his hair rhythmically until his trembling stops. He can hear Mother snarl, the dismissal amplifying her anger, making it into something almost inhuman, and though he knows he _should_ still feel terrified, should feel _more_ terrified than before, suddenly… he doesn’t.

He’s breathing steadily for the first time in hours when she manages to catch his eyes. They hold gazes for a moment, and then she smiles again, warmth and kindness and everything that makes him feel safe. Then, for a split second, something flashes through her eyes and, with a reassuring squeeze on the back of his neck, she straightens and glances over at Mother with an expression of bored disdain.

“Charlotte, let me explain something. No,” she holds up a finger, miraculously cutting Mother off before she can fully open her mouth, “no. Listen. And try to get the full meaning of my words through your shriveled, diseased mind. In a _just_ world, Charlotte, you would not currently be here. I would have _drowned_ you like the feral bitch you are the moment I realized you were twisted enough to harm your own children, if not when you were a teenager and I realized what sort of misbegotten creature I unknowingly brought into this world. In a _just_ world, you and your equally depraved husband would have all your sins and sicknesses shown to the world, before being taken and put down so as to prevent you from further tainting the decent folk around you from association. In a _just_ world, everyone would know exactly what filth and vileness lurks behind that plastic face, those fake tits, and the ludicrously expensive clothes you use to try and keep from feeling your age. But you see Charlotte… this _isn’t_ a just world. This is a world of monsters and beasts, where strength reigns; and I think we both know who has the edge in that regard. So,” abruptly she turns, attention fixed solely on Mother, “I’m going to tell you what’s going to happen, and you’re going to pretend like there’s still a functioning cell in your diseased mind and comply. I am going to take Michael, and we are going to leave this pit of vipers behind forever. You and your sycophantic husband will receive adoption papers, transferring all rights of custody for Michael to me. You _will_ sign these papers, then disappear from his life forever. You will not see him, will not touch him, will not contact or influence him directly or indirectly, in person or through proxy, _ever_. If I even suspect you have done _anything_ that is even tangentially related to him, I will destroy you both, along with anyone and anything that might have the misfortune of touching your shriveled, blackened hearts. And you _know_ this is a promise I can fulfill. 

Silence falls after that last word, growing and threatening to suffocate the room and, if not for the steady four/fourteen count of the sink and lights, he would swear the world has stopped.

“Get out.”

Ice sunk into his core at the sudden break in silence, breath freezing in his lungs.

“Take that _psychotic_ little _monster_ and _**get out!**_ And if I ever see _either_ of you again, if you ever try any- the fu- don’t you turn your back on me! You _look_ at me when I’m talking to you! Look at me, you bitch! _Look at me!_ ”

“Charlotte…” she finishes knotting the shawl around his shoulders, glancing idly at Mother from the corner of her eye, “shut up.”

He hears Mother breathing, half gasping and half hissing in mindless rage. A suffocating moment passes, then another, then…

The hail of stiletto heels shatters the silence, barreling down the hall and not even slowing before the doors are thrown open in a crash, then rapidly vanishing into the distance, and _finally_ he lets out the breath that has been strangling him.

“Well,” the sudden amusement in her voice catches him off guard, making him jump and spinning his head, “that was certainly longer and more awkward than it needed to be.” A gentle, weathered hand cradles his cheek again, slowly lifting his gaze to hers. “Are you ready to go, Michael?”

“I -” his voice, sounding wrong in his ears, cracks as the nerves and cold and lingering pain from Mother’s hands make his throat seize and burn. He tries to breath as deeply as he can, head spinning even more and eyes burning with unshed tears, “I _can’t_.” He feels all the more sick as the words leave him in a rush, “Tommy… if I leave then Christian will-”

And suddenly she’s holding him again, cutting off the words and panic. “Shh, it’s alright sweetheart. Don’t worry about Thomas, he’ll be just fine. Unless, of course,” she chuckles softly, “your older brother is _much_ less of a coward than I believe him to be.”

His shivering stills abruptly, her words cycling through his mind. 

Christian would _never_ lay a hand on Tommy himself, not as terrified of Mother as he is. And while it’s _possible_ that he might consider using his “friends” as new proxies for hurting Tommy, doing so would almost certainly destroy the carefully maintained nice-guy veneer he presents to the world, which…

Which he would never do. Not ever, because that veneer is his greatest weapon and greatest shield, because it helps him bend peers and adults to his will, and because being “the good son” means Dad hurts him less and sometimes – _sometimes_ – steps between him and Mother.

And because of all of that… no Grant means that Christian would stop hurting Tommy. No Grant means that Tommy would finally be safe.

Someone is laughing and crying, the sound high and shaky and a little unhinged, and just when he’s ready to turn on whoever it is, beg them to stop, he realizes that it’s him.

Her hand brushes through his hair, and he finally lets himself move, falling into the touch.

“Michael?”

Her voice is so sweet and gentle, so concerned for _him_. He nearly seizes, laughter and sobs intensifying hysterically.

It’s so simple, so obvious. And yet he had never thought to just _disappear_. Years of pain and torment, and all he had ever had to do to keep Tommy safe was _leave_.

Gasping and trembling, he looks up at her, meeting her gaze fully and smiling through his hysterics. “Gramsy? Can we leave now?”

#########################

Four days later he’s sitting in a room, one that looks less like a law office and more like an antique bookstore after the filing cabinets exploded. In his good hand he holds a ceramic mug, covered in dancing cats and filled with almost as much cream and sugar as spicy tea. The other arm is set in a green cast – “because the green ranger’s the best, and never let anyone tell you otherwise, ok buddy?” – that’s covered with the names and doodles and well-wishes of a clinics’ worth of doctors and nurses, all of whom had smiled _more_ at him when he left then they had when he arrived, who had scheduled his next checkup, said they were looking forward to it, and _meant_ it.

It’s been four days since he’d last seen his parents, his brothers, or his parents’ staff. Four days since anyone’s hit him, called him a monster, or looked at him like something subhuman. Four days and, sitting in the overstuffed armchair, listening to Gramsy and her lawyer friend discuss the final details of his adoption, he’s finally starting to believe that it’s not all a dream.

“Well,” he glances up and over the lip of his mug at the deliberate drawl, the lawyer smiling kindly at him. “I’d say that covers everything. One signature to go, and it’s all set.” The older man pushes the folder across the table, “Unless there’s anything else you can think of?”

He glances up at Gramsy for confirmation, then slides forward in his chair to look over the papers.

“Can you –” he trails off abruptly, mouth snapping shut, head lowering and fingers constricting around the mug involuntarily.

A warm hand rests on his back, rubbing gentle circles, and when he looks up again both faces are open and kind. “It’s alright,” the lawyer smiles brighter, nodding reassuringly, “just let me know what you want and, if it’s possible, I’ll make it happen.”

He holds his breath for a moment, trying to focus on their smiles and the warmth under his fingers. A few seconds pass, then a few more, and then… he asks.

#########################

At 8AM, September 23, 1995, twelve year old Grant Ward was led into the barracks of his newest prison. Three years later, fifteen year old Grant Ward escaped the military school and set out on a journey of spiraling revenge and pain and madness.

At 8AM, September 23, 1995, twelve year old Grant Ward walked into an independent law office with his grandmother. Five hours later, twelve year old Michael Monroe walked out again, renewed and reborn, and set out on the first day of his new life.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s September 25th, 1997, and fourteen year old Michael Monroe keeps his head down as he heads toward his new locker, just hoping to get through the first day of high school in peace.

On the one hand, he’s far enough away from where he finished junior high that nothing should follow him. On the other hand, he’s far enough away from where he finished junior high that nothing’s stopping new drama from building. Either way, if he can make it through the day – and, if he’s _really_ lucky, the first week – without becoming the school freak, he’ll call it a win.

So far it’s not looking good.

With every step he can feel people looking at him, can see them trying to be subtle as they point and whisper. He’s used to it, but he’s never stopped feeling self-conscious and nervous about it, so he just keeps his head down and picks up the pace.

Things had been bad enough the last time he started school as the _new_ kid, not knowing anyone, starting a few months late, pale and chubby and quiet… he might as well have rolled in chum and jumped in a shark tank. The other kids swarmed him at first, especially when it became clear that he wasn’t going to put up a fight. It had been open season for the first three days, until one kid punched at just the right angle to break his nose, and suddenly the jeers and laughter turned into stares of horror as he stood, blood streaming down his face, silent and completely unresponsive. No one picked on him after that. No one went _near_ him after that, except for a handful of truly desperate kids who hovered just near enough to ward off the bullies but far enough to be safe from “that freak Monroe.”

He spent the next year that way, getting through each school day without talking to anyone, enduring the stares and whispered rumors. Even without his new name and living conditions, that alone would have made it had been the best year of his life.

Then he had graduated, readied himself to slip incognito into and through a new high school, and – halfway through the summer – took a curveball to the face from life as a growth spurt hit him, finally kicking his metabolism into gear as an added bonus.

And so, instead of entering high school as Michael Monroe – average height, a little chubby, and completely anonymous in his normalcy – he was doing so as Michael Monroe – six foot scarecrow freshman.

So much for flying under the radar.

Finally he makes it to his new locker, fumbling with the combination and trying to ignore the whispers behind his back.

He only _just_ gets it open, and starts to think he might actually get to class without incident, when trouble breaks out a few lockers down.

At first he just hears laughter, smug and a little cruel but nothing out of the norm for a group of teenage boys. Then he hears the girl’s voice, high and shaky and distressed, coming from the center of their cluster.

“Come on, give it ba- _stop!_ ”

There’s another swell of laughter, reminding him a little too much of Christian and his friends, and he realizes that he’s white-knuckling his locker door. He forces his hand to relax, gritting his teeth and starting one of his breathing exercises, and starts shoving books into his locker.

‘It’s none of your business,’ he tells himself, trying to blink away the red mist in his eyes, ‘just keep your head down, don’t start anything, don’t get noticed. One of her friends or a teacher will do something.’ He forces himself to keep breathing like he’s been taught, zipping up his bag with a jerk, ‘This isn’t your fight Monroe, you don’t have to get involved.’

“ _Please_ , just give me my notebook!”

“Aw, what’s the matter princess? Don’t want us to see what you’ve been writing about us?” The smug superiority in the nasally voice makes bile rise into the back his throat. “What? You think no one’s noticed your little spy routine? I wonder what we’d find if we took a little peak…”

“Don’t!”

They laugh again, with the kind of cruel synchronicity that only comes out of a secure mob. “You want it so much, jump for it! Or, better yet,” the voice drops low enough that Michael can only just hear the sudden, sickly undertone of sadistic pleasure, “I’ll give it back for a kiss -”

The words cut off into a shriek of startled pain, and he can feel the flutter of the other boy’s pulse and the slight give of the bones in his wrist under his grip. 

Snarling and trying to pull free, the other guy wheels on him… then freezes when he has to look _up_ into the younger teen’s eyes.

Grant meets the gaze coldly. “Enough.”

The entire hallway’s gone dead silent, the crowd of spectators that’s gathered – and why the hell did none of _them_ decide to step in? – nearly shaking with nervous anticipation. The guy’s friends are frozen, staring at Grant in pure shock. The only one who _doesn’t_ look at all scared is the girl at the center of everything, who’s now staring at him in surprise, confusion, and tentative hope.

_Everyone’s_ eyes are fixed on him, and internally he’s cursing himself for causing the one thing he _didn’t_ want to happen that day.

But it’s too late to back out, so he takes a deep breath and reaches to grab the purple notebook from the other guy’s outstretched hand.

That movement, small as it is, seems to shock the group into action, the lead guy’s expression turning ugly with anger as he tries to pull free and his friends start towards them.

He just tightens his grip, and the second yelp brings everything to a halt again.

In just a few seconds the older guy’s actually starting to sniffle and, if he wasn’t such a pathetic bastard, Grant might actually feel a little embarrassed for him. Since he _doesn’t_ , he just grabs the notebook and, with an extra parting squeeze on the other guy’s wrist, sends him over to his friends with a shove.

The group shuffles around their leader, still sniveling and clutching his wrist to his chest, and the electric tension in the air builds along with their anger fueled confidence.

There are days when he’s just _depressed_ by the hive-minded stupidity humans are capable of.

Shifting into a more grounded stance, he faces the group full on and lets his expression go blank. When he was still living with his fam- with his biological parents, that empty expression had been one of his few defenses, hiding the things that _really_ hurt or scared him and keeping him from antagonizing anyone further. Since his adoption, however, he’s come to learn that most people find it… _unsettling_. Even after two years he’s not really used to being the one that others are afraid of, but in this moment – watching the little mob of idiots go white with sick terror – he actually doesn’t mind.

He shifts his weight to one foot and feels strangely rewarded when the whole group flinches backwards. It occurs to him that, if he wanted, he could _really_ do some damage now, could ensure on the first day that no one would trouble him for the rest of high school.

It also occurs to him that that thought sounds just like Christian, whispering into his ear.

The brief pleasure evaporates, and he shakes his head slightly to banish the idea. Then, with a steadying breath, Michael locks eyes with the group’s teary-eyed leader.

“Walk away.” He narrows his eyes slightly, letting just a hint of his anger into his voice. “ _ **Now.**_ ”

The group does _not_ do what he says but, all things considered, he doesn’t really mind that they’re running away. He’ll leave that to a teacher or hall-monitor or whatever to deal with.

There’s a flicker of movement at his side, drawing his attention away from the rapidly retreating group and, for the first time, to the girl.

Slender, dark skin and hair, subtle make-up, doe-eyes and closed posture, and clothes that – while obviously expensive – are nowhere near as flashy or form-fitting as most of the girls on campus. Add the glasses, braces, and overall attitude of awkward shyness, and Michael would be incredibly surprised if someone _wasn’t_ bullying her.

Right now she’s looking up at him with a kind of shocked wonder, and internally he scrambles to put some humanity back in his face before she’s traumatized any further.

He makes himself smile at her, aiming for gentle and reassuring, like how he used to smile at Tommy. Since she doesn’t react in terror he assumes he’s at least gotten close.

“Here.” He holds the notebook out to her, trying to keep his voice easy, “They probably won’t try anything else any time soon, but I’d keep a close eye on that,” she starts, gasping quietly, and he tries to smile more amiable before he scares her, “just to be on the safe side.”

After a moment she ducks her head and reaches out to take the notebook with shaking hands, a brilliant red flush on her cheeks. He doesn’t really blame her. Between the dealing with those morons and getting an assist from an overgrown freak, the poor girl’s probably about to melt from embarrassment.

Problem solved, he does his best to give a friendly, parting nod and – after pausing to close his locker – starts off towards his first class.

He’s barely halfway down the hall, skin crawling from the stares and whispers that follow him, when he realizes that his hand’s slit open and bleeding steadily.

The locker.

He had gripped the locker door so tightly that he cut himself on the damned thing, and hadn’t even noticed until now. And, very probably, he had gotten his blood all over that jackass’ bony wrist.

Great. Just _great_.

Swearing under his breath he turns, a detour to the nurses’ office in store unless he wants to draw even _more_ attention to himself – if that’s even possible at this point.

If nothing else, he consoles himself, at least he’s gotten the reveal out of the way and doesn’t have to _wait_ until everyone figures out he’s a freak. No, with any luck the rumors will spread fast, that’ll be an end to things, and he’ll be able to get back to being shunned and avoided. Or, at the very least, be able to get through the rest of the day without any more incidents or unnecessary interactions.

#########################

“Hey, hey you! Big guy! Wait up a second!”

Sonuva- _really?_

Things had been going as well as could be expected – nonstop whispers and skin-prickling stares following him everywhere – and he had almost been starting to relax into the familiarity of it. Now, on the verge of heading in to find some isolated corner of the cafeteria, that tiny flicker of hope throws its metaphorical hands in the air and dies with a plaintive whimper.

Poised on the balls of his feet, Michael finds himself contemplating the pros and cons of pretending he didn’t hear anything and just going on his way. Or, at the very least, giving into impulse and running as fast as possible.

Unfortunately, the momentary deliberation provides his new assailant with enough time to catch up, bringing him face to face with a pretty girl and a wave of déjà vu.

Standing on tiptoe, the girl leans in close, thrusting her face towards his so quickly that he actually takes a step back. “Are you the…” she squints, studying his face intently, “Yeah, yeah you are. You’re the guy!” A brilliant grin lights up her face and, with a girlish swing of the arms, she rocks back on her heels and looks him up and down appraisingly, “Hot _damn_ , the girl’s room gossip did not lie!”

He stares at her in bewilderment, mind stalled by the sheer surreality of the situation. “Ah-”

Either she doesn’t hear him or she’s too much on a roll to wait, “So, do you alwa- oh, there she is. Hannah, check it out!” Grinning over his shoulder, the girl points up at him emphatically, “I found your Knight Errant!”

Feeling increasingly confused and disoriented, Michael follows her gaze. And promptly locks eyes with the girl from that morning.

At least that resolves the déjà vu.

The short-haired one – twins, they have to be twins – babbles on, seemingly oblivious to their dazed bewilderment. “I guess the odds of running into him aren’t _that_ bad or anything, but still, how lucky is this? I mean we were just talking about him and everything! Though,” her voice takes on a decidedly sly note, “I see you left out some _very important details_ that I had to glean from other people. But seriously, baby girl,” the slyness goes up a notch and, for good measure, enters her smile as she looks him over again, a wicked gleam in her eyes that – for some reason – makes his face warm, “when you get yourself a knight in shining armor you go _all **out.**_ I mean _da-_ ”

“Omigosh Beth _shut **up!**_ ” The blank shock on the long-haired twin’s face evaporates, replaced by a look of pure horror as she _sprints_ across the hall, colliding with her sister and wrapping both hands around her mouth in a panic.

Watching the strange twins grapple in front of the cafeteria doors, others students simply parting around them after a brief glance, it occurs to Michael that even if he knew what was going on he probably wouldn’t understand it. 

He ducks his head slightly and starts to head back down the hallway, wondering whether he can find some empty room or should just head outside for lunch, when there’s a loud flurry of motion behind him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, _whoa_ there, hold up Lancelot!”

Wincing and sighing in exasperated frustration, Michael narrowly manages to avoid flinching out of his skin when the short-haired twin – Beth, the other… Hannah, had called her Beth – lunges over to grab his arm, dragging his escape attempt to a premature halt.

“Sheesh buddy,” he can hear the eye-roll in her tone, “make things a little more difficult, why doncha. Now c’mon,” she tugs impatiently on his arm, “you’re sitting with us for lunch!”

The confusion and disorientation evaporates, replaced by a sickly clamminess and all too familiar twist in his stomach. Swallowing against the sour tang in his mouth, Michael starts pulling out of her grasp. “I… I really need to go. Now.” 

“No, wait!” 

Something in her voice draws him short again and, now fighting the urge to throw his hands in the air and scream at them to just stop playing and leave him alone, he glances down at the girl clinging to his side.

Keeping an iron grip on his sleeve, Beth sighs deeply and tries to lock eyes with him, earlier exuberance dialed down as she starts talking to him like he’s some kind of skittish animal. “Look, I just mean… I’m trying to _thank_ you for this morning.” She shuffles awkwardly, gnawing lightly at her bottom lip. “You were all nice and gallant and stuff, and defended my sweet baby sister’s honor – and emo journal – from those jackasses, so the _least_ I can do is hook you up with lunch and a place to sit.” She smiles, a little nervously now, “Unless, you know, you’ve got plans…?”

And, just like that, the confusion’s back. 

By this point he knows that he has to look like a mentally challenged wreck, staring at her blankly, completely still and silent. But he just can’t bring himself to respond in any way, not when he’s trying to figure out _why_ she seems so sincere about everything she’s just said.

His confusion, or simply the fact that he’s not actively running anymore, seems to bolster her, and a little of her earlier energy returns. “C’mon big guy, it’ll be fun! I swear, I am the hands-down _weirdest_ person in our group, everyone else is much less scary so a badass like you should be totally fine. Say you’ll come? You’ll totally make my day!” Grinning widening progressively, she winks at him, “Han’s too. Right, sissy?”

Still red, Hannah shuffles nervously from just behind her sister, fingers running almost compulsively through her hair. “I…” for a split second she almost meets his eyes, then, flushing even brighter, she looks back down at her shoes. “I mean…. if you’re not doing anything, I - _we’d_ love for you to join us. And like Beth said,” her cheeks are so bright now he almost expects them to catch fire, “it’s the least I can do to… to thank you. For helping me. W-with my notebook.”

He can’t. He _shouldn’t_. It’s a terrible, _terrible_ idea that these girls will come to regret – probably within the first few minutes when they realize just what kind of creature they’ve let into their company. 

He can’t. He won’t. It just isn’t safe, not for anyone.

_Michael Monroe closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, pulls his arm free, and walks away, leaving the two girls behind. Things continue as they always have and, if occasionally he passes one of the girls, sees the flicker of sadness in their eyes as they walk by, and feels a twinge of longing for what might have been, at least he can content himself knowing that he’s saved them from being hurt by his innate corruption. By the time he graduates he’s met a few people that he counts as, if not actual friends, close acquaintances, and only occasionally introduces or thinks of himself as Grant. He ends up going to a small college near Gramsy, and completes a Bachelor in accounting in half the time it normally takes – a fairly easy feat when the only other competition for his time is his grandmother and a part-time job. While working on his Master’s – because why not? – he gets a job at a small accounting firm, also near Gramsy, where he remains. It isn’t interesting, or challenging, or particularly fulfilling. He gets along well with his coworkers during the day, finishes his shift, and goes home. The only change to his routine of work and home is when he volunteers at an animal shelter over the weekends, dealing primarily with the animals and keeping to himself. This, at least, he enjoys and looks forward to. It isn’t a bad life. It’s safe. He’s safe. And, most importantly, other people are safe from him._

Except…

Michael Monroe closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and immediately stills again when a gentle hand rests on his arm, just above where Beth is holding him.

Trembling with nerves – the tiny shivers making his skins prickle lightly – Hannah takes a deep breath, looks up at him from under her lashes and, flushing cherry red, actually locks eyes with him. “Please?”

…

This is _such_ a terrible idea.

“Alright.” Hannah gapes up at him, looking almost as shocked as he feels, and Beth squeals like some sort of woodland creature. “Alright, I’m…” he trails off awkwardly, doing his best to not give into impulse and run. “Ok.”

“Awesomesauce! C’mon, Tall-Dark-and-Handsome, let’s go!” In a second the more exuberant brunet wheels around and, grip readjusting to clutch his hand, drags him into the cafeteria so fast he doesn’t even have time to recoil. By the time he’s actually got his feet under him and his head put together they’re halfway across the room, Hannah trailing at his heels like a particularly anxious puppy. Beth, grip still like iron on his hand like she knows that he wants to run for cover, hasn’t stopped chattering since her exclamation, though in his current state Michael probably wouldn’t be able to follow her spiel even _if_ she wasn’t motor-mouthing like a chipmunk on speed.

He’s so disoriented by the whole ordeal, in fact, that he barely registers when they come to an abrupt stop at a table near the center of the room.

“Now Bethy-bear, we’ve talked about this,” the sardonic voice cuts through some of the fog, and he blinks down at a slightly older teen, looking distinctly related to the twins and deeply amused by the situation before him, “you need to stop abducting the other children. It’s kind of illegal and very creepy.”

“Shut up Dork.” The female force of nature chirps, grinning at all assembled and swinging an arm out to pull Michael into a side-hug. “It just so happens that _I_ have located and won over the mysterious stranger who defended our precious Hannah Banana’s honor! And _lo!_ ” Pulling him closer with one arm she thrusts the other upwards, pointing dramatically to the ceiling, “As reward for his gallantry I have brought him to our domain, so that we might treat him to a grand feast of crappy high school cafeteria food! Or, you know,” suddenly dropping the theatrical tone – which was… maybe supposed to be a British accent? – Beth shrugs, “just let him sit with us if he was smart and brought his own food. And on that note,” punching him on the arm, she sweeps a hand towards the table, “meet our people! Those two dorks,” she indicates their male look-a-like and a blonde wearing glasses, “are our brother Josh and his bestie Chris, and these luscious ladies,” with a flourish she gestures to a slender red-head in a hoodie and capris and a pretty blonde in jeans and a “Save the Whales” shirt, “are Ashley and Sam. Assorted weirdoes, this is…” her energy drops abruptly, again, and she shoots him a side glance, “What’s your name?”

…

Were Christian to ride into the cafeteria on a pony, fall to his knees at his feet, and apologize whole-heartedly for everything he’s ever done to his little brothers while swearing to immediately seek psychiatric help… it would not make the day much weirder or more frightening.

Doing his damnedest to not wilt under the force of her expectant gaze – or everyone else’s amused ones – he takes a quick breath, reminds himself to use the _right_ name this time, and forces himself to speak above his preferred murmur. “Michael.”

Suddenly grinning, again, Beth slaps him on the back, “Guys, meet Mike!” Squeezing him a little in the side-hug, the juggernaut that has abducted him shoves him down into an empty chair. “Alright, social niceties out of the way, let’s eat! Do we need to get you stuff or –” she’s riffling through his bag, and the others look not at all surprised, “oh _nice_ , you brought your own! Good choice, the food here is – ugh – no bueno. You’d think that on the first day they’d up their game or something bu- hey, look Sammy, he’s a health nut like you! Well, you know, not _entirely_ like you, ‘cause I’m pretty sure this is turkey, but still –”

Eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, Michael stares at the still rambling girl for a long moment. Then, shakily, he turns to the pair sitting across from him.

The other boys look wryly amused, if not a little sympathetic.

Smiling, half kindly and half condolingly, the brother – Josh – leans across the table, offering a bag of potato chips. “Welcome.”

One eye on Beth, who seems to not need to breathe, Michael reaches out in a daze and takes a chip.

It tastes like sour cream, onion, confusion, and something inexplicably warm.

He’s not entirely certain, but he thinks he likes it.

#########################

When the station wagon arrives he slips in, dropping his bag to the floor and buckling his seatbelt mechanically.

“So,” Gramsy’s voice is carefully neutral as she pulls away from the curb, with just enough warm support to jolt his mind back into gear. “How was your first day?”

Feeling dizzy, he shakes his head and tries to martial his thoughts into some sort of order. “I…” After a second he turns to look at her, eyes wide, confused, and a little terrified, “I think I made friends?”

About ten minutes later they’re each holding a triple-scoop of organic dark chocolate fudge ice cream with chili and strawberry slices – and rainbow sprinkles on his, because _yes_. Purportedly, the ice cream’s to help calm their nerves after nearly getting rear-ended in the school parking lot – “Honestly, those oversized trucks are ridiculous, _nothing_ should be that difficult to stop. And, anyway, anyone who drives so close to another driver that they can scarcely react to a perfectly natural traffic conditions has no business being on the road. It isn’t as if I hit the brakes _that_ hard.” – and because Mr. Pyzansky’s niece is still new on the job and needs to practice on someone who won’t make her cry if it takes too long to fix their order.

Those both seem like good reasons to Michael, so if Gramsy seems incapable of dimming the smile on her face, or keeps reaching out to squeeze his forearm or brush his hair, or has to blink rapidly to keep the tears out of her eyes… well, that’s no one’s business but hers, is it?

Besides, the ice cream is really good at helping him not panic about the _next_ day at school.

#########################

By the next morning he’s convinced that he misread the situation entirely, that yesterday was a fleeting moment of charity and today everything will return to normal, allowing him to retreat back into anonymity.

That conviction lasts long enough for him to step out of the car, whereupon he’s ambushed by shrieks of “Mike!” and a flurry of waving hands.

Too afraid of what the – possibly insane – brunet ringleader will do if he tries to run – because that sort of behavior _does_ tend to attract predators – Michael waves goodbye to his quietly ecstatic grandmother and makes his way over to the group.

He’s expecting the other shoe to drop. Pulling some unsuspecting new kid into the group, only to turn on and destroy him later wasn’t an uncommon game for Christian and his friends. Or, maybe, it’s simply a case of the others humoring Beth, who seems the type to pick up and drop new interests on a whim.

Regardless, he knows the camaraderie and goodwill can’t last.

Which is why, when the only change over the next few days is everyone getting progressively _nicer_ to him, Michael is… confused.

He’d get it if it were just Beth, who – he’s learned – is either your best buddy or mortal enemy, with no middle ground. But, instead, it’s the entire group that seems to have adopted him, despite all logic and reason.

It doesn’t help – or _does_ help? He’s really not sure – that he’s turned out to share a few classes with them, in addition to the lunch period. He has AP Math with Chris and Sam, AP English with Ashley, World History with Ashley – again – and the twins, and Josh is already saying that the only good thing about gym is that they’re in it together.

Even without those shared classes, however, the entire group’s given every indication that they _want_ to spend time with him. Every morning they pull him into their cluster by the front doors. Every day they walk with him to their lockers – another location that, against all odds, most of them have in common – and stick together as long as possible on their ways to class. Every lunch they shepherd him through the cafeteria and settle him in the same chair at the same table. And every afternoon they’re after him to hang out after school, the intensity of their pleas increasing until the sixth day of the semester when he finally gives in and spends a truly surreal afternoon in a bowling alley.

The more they press him, the more time they spend together, and the more he gets to know these strange, _strange_ people, the more Michael is convinced that they really, truly, and without any agenda want to be his friends.

The thought makes him almost as terrified as he’d been at The Well.

And still…

And still, even with that fear and uncertainty, even with the shadow of knowledge that – sooner or later – these strange, wonderful people are going to realize what he _really_ is and shut him out of their lives… he’s starting to actually _think_ of them as friends.

It’s really weird.

Even weirder is the way it’s starting to influence his interactions with people _outside_ the group. Not that he’s suddenly turned into Beth and started hugging people at random, or anything like that. But, for the first time since he can remember, just being around others _doesn’t_ fill him with constant, wearying dread. He feels himself standing straighter, taller, less closed when he’s in public; he manages to consistently speak above a whisper, and is actually able to reply to others in complete sentence, rather than monosyllables.

Part way through the second week he’s out shopping with Gramsy when he collides with someone. Without thinking he reaches out to steady her basket, makes eye contact and, with an actual smile, apologizes before continuing down the aisle. Gramsy doesn’t say a word about the incident, but that may be because she’s fighting not to cry.

And it’s that sort of thing that is, somehow, becoming the norm for him. On the one hand he feels a little guilty, that two weeks with a group of strangers has influenced him in ways that two years with Gramsy didn’t. On the other hand he feels a little guilty that he’s taking advantage of the group’s trust. And on the third hand if you’re a mutant – and, wow, does that sound like he’s suddenly channeling Josh – he feels… cheated. He feels _wronged_ in that he’s only now experiencing all the things the group’s making him feel, and unbelievably grateful that – no matter how much he doesn’t deserve it – he’s got them in his life now.

He’s occupied by these conflicting feelings – and the overall confusion that has _not_ gone away since he first met Beth – as he takes his seat in AP Chemistry, one of the few classes he doesn’t share with anyone in the group – and, in yet _another_ new aspect of his life that he’s not really sure how to handle, having a class where he doesn’t know anyone is actually kind of… lonely, he thinks, rather than the relief its always been.  
He’s so distracted, in fact, that he only registers that the teacher is talking when nearly the entire class groans in unison. 

Mr. Harrison, a middle-aged black man with a receding hairline and iron core hidden under his easy-going nature, waves off the flood of protests idly. “Tough luck kids. Next year you can play buddy-buddy, but for now you can grin, bear it, and deal with the partners I assign. Play nice now, because unless someone gets an incurable flesh-eating bacteria or something equally exciting, I will _not_ be changing this.” And, with a little smirk, he turns back and continues writing names on the board.

Eventually Michael’s name goes up, alongside one other and a table number, and with a wince he makes his way over to the unfortunate who’s stuck with him for the year.

Said unfortunate turns out to be a petite Asian girl with a boxy bob, wearing a sweater set, a calf-length skirt, and a pair of glasses that could probably be used as a weapon. She’s also wearing a glare of righteous fury and disdain, like he’s something on the bottom of her shoe that just insulted her mother.

Were he a little less used to being on the receiving end of death-glares, he’d probably be heading for the door.

Instead he tries to smile at her in a friendly manner and, when all that does is make her glare with more venom, sinks down onto the free stool.

Things are awkward, to say the least, as Mr. Harrison describes the experiment they’ll be performing, Michael falling back on his skills at remaining perfectly still and unobtrusive, and the girl silently fuming and almost audibly grinding her teeth. Then, the _second_ Mr. Harrison tells them to start, she wheels on him.

“Alright, look Party City, let’s get one thing straight _right_ off the bat.” Teeth bared none too subtly, the girl glares at him while setting up their equipment in an admittedly impressive display of multitasking. “If we’re going to be stuck together for this whole year, you _are_ going to pull your weight. On _everything_. I am _not_ going to carry your in-crowd carcass through this class, and I am **_not_** going to get anything under an A because you can’t be bothered to study or do your work! So you had _better_ step up to the plate, or whatever sports metaphor you can understand, or so help me,” leaning forward, she stops just short of poking him in the chest, “I will find something _much_ more exciting than a flesh-eating bacteria for you to deal with. Got it?!”

Suddenly feeling much less sorry for his partner and much more worried for himself, Michael nods. “Got it.”

“You’d _better._ ”

#########################

Despite the… uncomfortable start, the class doesn’t take long to become strangely enjoyable. He and his partner fall into synch rather quickly, working their way through the experiment with only a few complications, and not only end up being the first ones done but – judging by Mr. Harrison’s look of pleased surprise – complete the assignment beyond expectations.

They sit in silence until the end of class, and – having already put away their things – are the first ones out when the bell rings.

“Hey!”

He stutters to a halt, looking back with wide eyes as the girl stalks up to him.

She’s fidgeting a little, the movement reminding him strangely of Hannah, and her small hands are clenched around the strap of her bag. “Look I…” After a few seconds of stammering she growls in frustration, reaches over and, grabbing him by the jacket, pulls him around the corner and into an empty class room.

Michael’s wondering whether he should be concerned that he’s grown used to teenage girls dragging him around campus, when she lets him go and starts fidgeting again.

“Look, a-about class… what I said before we started working…” heaving a sigh of frustration, she hugs her bag to her chest, the awkwardness and vulnerability a little shocking after the earlier vitriol. “I… really shouldn’t have said any of those things. It’s just,” she tosses her head in frustration, cheeks flushed slightly, “I’ve already had to deal with free-loading jerks and condescending A-crowd idiots since the semester started, and I _need_ to get all A’s, and then I saw you and thought…” Trailing off, she frowns and shakes her head aggressively, “No. No, it doesn’t matter what I thought. I don’t even know you and I made assumptions and… and I was a jerk.” Sighing again, she glances up at him, looking more than a little embarrassed and contrite, “I’m _really_ sorry.”

Confused as he is, he finds himself smiling. “It’s ok. No, really!” He holds up his hands in conciliation when she starts to protest, “It’s alright, I… I don’t mind. Really.” Unbidden, the smile grows a little wider and more lopsided, and – imitating a move he’s seen Josh use on a number of occasions – he shrugs disarmingly, “I mean, it’s understandable. You’re grades are important and… n-no one should have to do someone else’s work.” Unbidden, his thoughts turn to Christian, who – while he may have studied fanatically – always had some sycophant on hand to do the busy-work. The way those kids had fawned and gushed about it, like he was doing _them_ a favor, had always left a sick feeling in his stomach.

Still looking a bit embarrassed, and now a touch suspicious, the girl tosses her head and rolls her shoulders, arms coming back down to her sides as she relaxes. “You always this quick to roll over when someone tries to bite your head off?” She studies him for a long moment. Then, huffing a little chuckle and finally breaking out in a – really pretty – smile, she extends her hand towards him. “We were never properly introduced, were we? I’m Emily.”

He doesn’t even hesitate as he takes her hand, still smiling when – to utter shock – he responds as easily as breathing. “I’m Mike.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _Boom. Butterfly effect._  
>     
>  _Incidentally, I cannot_ believe _I haven't seen any Agents of SHIELD/Until Dawn crossovers. I would have figured there'd be at least_ some _by now. Well, regardless, hope you enjoyed! I've got quite a bit planned for this one, a couple chapters that will take place before and_ at least _through the end of the game and a bit beyond... though, given how many stories I'm currently behind in updating and rl in general, I cannot promise any kind of regular updating schedule. Sorry, my brain is a sad mess of random ideas under constant attack by warring tribes of Plot Bunnies. Someday, I hope and dream, I'll get them all under control; but, until then, let me know what you think and, hopefully, look for an update soon!_


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